


The Crosby 7 White Christmas Eve Revue

by Cuda (Scylla)



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Supernatural, Superwood - Fandom, Torchwood
Genre: Action & Romance, Alien Culture, Alien Planet, Bath Sex, Christmas Eve, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Far Future, Future Castiel, Future Fic, Immortals in Space, M/M, White Christmas references, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5331377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Christmas Eve, Jack surprises Castiel with a visit to Crosby 7 - a planet peopled by the hardest of hardcore Bing Crosby fans. Tourists from across the galaxy show up in the little town of Pinetree to watch (and participate in - I mean come on, commemorative name patches!) the White Christmas Eve Revue. But all isn't what it seems to be in a sleepy little recreation of a sleepy little recreation of a sleepy little fake town in fake 1950's Vermont. In fact, it's up to one fake RAF pilot, one sorta fake angel, and a crack team of singing cats to save the day.</p><p>I'm totally not kidding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"An entire planet themed after—that movie?" Castiel boggled out the windshield at the unassuming little world spinning below in a dance of crystal fog. He did have an understanding of what motivated the fans of a thing, but was there enough sheer material for a project of these proportions? Even Disney hadn't managed more than a sizable chunk of swamp, with nearly sixty animated feature films to draw from.

"Not the _entire_ planet," Jack snorted, and pressed his hand to the glowing gel pad on the cruiser's console, "Just one city. But it's a big city. That part of Crosby 7 has a climate like Vermont's. They can't quite hold the snow 'til Christmas Eve, though."

"I'm sure if they could, they'd try," Castiel answered, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, believe me. There's a whole department of the weather service devoted to that."

Castiel wondered when and how Jack had become such an expert. "I'm shocked."

Somewhere between fascination and horror, Castiel dropped into the bucket seat beside Jack's. He reached up to fasten the safety harness. He might not be affected by the gees, but he couldn't say he enjoyed being tossed around the cabin like a ragdoll, either. Using his abilities to resist the force made him itch.

"How did they find out about it?" Castiel asked, "Bing Crosby was not an alien. We confirmed it several times."

Jack laughed. Bright green coordinates skittered across the windshield, followed by authorization checks and landing procedures. "So did we, come to think of it. What was it about that guy?" He shook his head. "And to answer your question: we've been beaming a garbage dump of media at nearly speed of light from our little planet since 1855. You've hung around Torchwood long enough, what're the odds that somebody out there overheard it all?"

Tinkling harp music drifted through the cruiser's cabin, followed by plaintive violins. Castiel tossed Jack a dirty look, who shrugged and pointed at the planet growing larger in their front window. "Not my fault. They like to set the mood."

As if on cue, the chords resolved themselves into a familiar holiday melody. The ship shivered as the atmosphere scrubbed against its hull hard enough to set it ablaze. Heat ticked up rapidly in the cabin, attended by ironic digital snowflakes, swirling across the windshield.

"The whole planet hasn't been developed yet!" Jack shouted over the din of teeth-chattering vibrations and Bing Crosby's mellow bass. "Most of it's still pretty wild!"

Across the bottom of the dash, lyrics appeared in a variety of languages. A green dot bopped along the top of the words as they scrolled past, in time to the music. "Are all of the cities like this one?" Castiel shouted back.

"Not exactly! We can visit a few once we're done here. Except the Seven Cities. They're themed after the _Road To…_ movies."

Castiel turned his head to raise an eyebrow. Jack shrugged again, adding, "Only been there once. Too offensive, even for me!"

The ship slowed, assumed a trajectory somewhat less like a falling rock. Castiel let out a slow, shuddering breath.

* * *

 

Snow-fringed French doors ushered them out of the space port. Banners hung over the terminal entrance, welcoming them to 'Pinetree.' The breeze was frigid and carried the scents of fir and frost, shocking even Castiel's slightly numbed senses. Conifers - or something like them - lined the busy city street, elbowing for room with a diner, stationer's, post office, cobbler and general store. Snow dusted every roof, bush, awning and windowsill like a scene from a holiday card.

From Jack's description, Castiel anticipated something like a human theme park. Disneyland took liberties with the source material, painting a caricature with icons and suggestions. The point, he'd come to understand, was to step away from reality. For the people of Pinetree, the goal was reversed - to make a reality of Irving Berlin's imaginary 1954 Vermont. Shiny black Buicks and finned red Chevys crawled up and down the street. Directly across from the space port, a horse-drawn sleigh waited for luggage and passengers at the train depot. Every detail was pristine, every bit of scenery recreated by loving hands.

"You know, this place is a little creepy," Jack said, leaning close. His breath fogged, prompting Castiel to take a few exploratory puffs himself.

"It's off-putting," Castiel agreed, watching his frosty exhale dissolve, "but I don't sense anything malevolent."

"Mmhm. Kind of makes you wonder what's lurking in the shadows."

That thought followed Castiel, quirking its housecat question mark tail all the way from train to cab to check-in counter. The Columbia Inn receptionist's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. They were an unusual color, Castiel thought, as he touched the datapad she handed him, to transfer credits for the stay. Eyes the kind of sky blue that looked white in old movies.

Bing Crosby eyes.

She wore a sunny, yellow dress with a thick white collar and a broad white belt. From her winged eyeliner to her sleek red curls, not a hair was out of place. Her life force glowed faintly in Castiel's perception, or he might have guessed she was an android. That level of perfection took a serious commitment.

Her nametag said 'Maybelle.' She wasn't human. Castiel made a mental note to ask Jack about that later.

"Care to make reservations for dinner tomorrow night?" Maybelle asked, "It's bound to be packed and we don't want our Inn guests to miss the fun."

"Holiday rush?" Jack asked, leaning on the counter. She nodded at him with a professional smile and - Castiel noted with surprise - not even a flicker of interest.

"It's our Christmas performance," Maybelle explained, "we'll have tourists in just for the dinner." Something dinged on her datapad as their room request processed, and her brow furrowed.

"It looks like we still have some spaces available in the extras for the General Waverley tribute - would you be interested in participating?" Only then did her eyes wander, traveling over them both with a perfunctory curiosity that made Castiel want to cover himself. "We certainly have uniforms in your size."

"General Waverley tribute?" Jack asked, at the same time as Castiel muttered, " _Uniforms?_ "

Maybelle had a trilling, kittenish laugh. "Of course! Our Christmas Eve show is always a recreation of the final musical numbers." She didn't even mention _White Christmas,_ Castiel thought; she must assume it wouldn't be necessary. In the film, retired General Waverley received a surprise musical performance from the soldiers of his last company - a performance led by Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye. Castiel wasn't much of a showman, but he'd witnessed enough theater with Jack to know they'd never put him onstage in twelve hours for anything more complicated than a round of the title song.

"What do you think, Castiel?" And now Jack was smiling, and his slow perusal of Castiel's form was the antithesis of the receptionist's impersonal consideration. "Spending dinner as Army privates? You always did look good in olive drab."

"Dinner buffet opens at six. Soldiers muster at seven-forty-five, and General Waverley arrives at eight. If you let us know now, we can have uniform name patches embroidered for you both to keep after the show," Maybelle offered. She tapped a button on the datapad and a fill in blank appeared for them to enter their names.

"Commemorative name patches," Jack echoed, raising his eyebrows with the kind of grin that usually led to trouble, "how about it?"

Castiel sighed, and picked up the datapad one more time. At least he could make sure they spelled his name correctly.

"Wonderful. Dress rehearsal at eight. And don't forget tonight's dinner buffet." Maybelle added with a smile, "We'll have a singalong and trivia. First prize is a weekend in the Seven Cities!"

* * *

 

Jack's ravenous eagerness to explore towed Castiel along in his wake like a rowboat after a battleship. Excitement crackled through every inch of him, something stirred in him by the mix of the familiar with the alien. He didn't so much walk with Castiel as bounded, big strides and bigger energy restrained only barely. And he drank in Castiel's response to every new thing, every reminder of a golden memory.

He was - to the last bit of him - absolutely gorgeous.

In the wake of Jack's enthusiasm, even Castiel's inbred wariness slipped. They stopped for lunch at a diner with a counter the color of cream-swirled coffee, and a tower of pies displayed in a chrome-edged refrigerator. Here too, Castiel took note of their waiter's eyes: a faded blue to match the short order cook and the forlorn stranger in the fedora, sadly studying his coffee at the end of the counter.

He tried to remember the eye color of the ticket clerk in the train station; the conductor; the other passengers. Had they all been blue? Had they all been this blue?

"Jack," Castiel murmured, laying his hand over Jack's knuckles to still his fork on its way to his mouth with another bite of _perfect_ coconut cream pie, "Eyes. Blue eyes."

"Mm?" Jack looked up, the confused expression sweeping from his face as he followed Castiel's nod to the other people in the diner. When his gaze returned to Castiel's, his eyes were wary.

They were - to Castiel's relief - still his familiar clear blue. Not a tic of a change in any direction.

Jack took a moment to compose himself, and the skepticism vanished from his expression as well. He squinted at the waiter's nametag, then flagged him down with a smile. "'Scuse me, Glenn," Jack said in honeyed tones, cheek resting on his knuckles, "I couldn't help but notice you and your compadre there have a family resemblance. Relatives? Of Frank Sinatra, maybe?" With his free hand, Jack gestured to his own eyes.

Glenn-the-waiter grinned, with not a hint of the Inn receptionist's chilly professionalism. "Naw. But thanks. That'd be nice, wouldn't it? Me and Chance, we're no relation. Certainly not ol' Blue Eyes, but you're swell to say so."

Swell? Castiel tipped his head at the word. At the other end of the diner, he saw both the cook and the man in the fedora watching them. As his gaze met the cook's, Castiel could almost taste the stranger's annoyance at his presence. In fact, the whole place was teeming with unwelcome vibes. The only bright spot seemed to be Glenn.

"Come to think of it, there's a lot of blue eyes in town," Jack was saying. He was still mooning at Glenn, who reacted with the sort of appreciative fluster Castiel was used to.

"Oh ah, that's our symbiotes," Glenn said with a shrug, "It's an enzyme they make. Strips the pigment."

"Really?" Jack said, "That's fascinating. Are they native to Crosby 7?"

Glenn shrugged again. "Naw." His smile faded, and he cast a look over his shoulder at the other two men in the diner. He picked up the coffee carafe from its burner and turned back, reaching for Castiel's coffee cup. "Freshen your coffee, mister?" Glenn's hands shook.

Castiel nudged Jack's leg under the counter, and Jack closed off the conversation without a hitch. Twenty minutes later, they exited the cafe.

Around the corner, Jack drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and opened it. He gestured Castiel over and showed it to him. A few words had been hastily scrawled on the back of Jack's receipt.

> OFF @ 2. MEET @ ST MARYS? - GLENN

Jack folded up the flimsy paper with a chuckle. "I can appreciate a good old-fashioned priest kink. You do still have that naughty preacher look."

Frowning, Castiel took the paper from him and reread it himself. "I don't think he's proposing an assignation."

Jack's animated sigh seemed to require most of his body. "I know, Castiel. Let a guy dream." In another breath, however, Jack was all business again. "Why us? And why a note? Why not ask? Unless he doesn't want someone who could hear us to know about it."

"His cohorts were watching us," Castiel said.

Plunging his hands back into the pockets of his coat, Jack double-timed it up the sidewalk. "Maybe they're not his cohorts," he said, "did you get a read on them?"

"They were annoyed to see us, and human," Castiel replied, trotting to keep up, "Glenn is not. Well," he amended quickly, "not _all_ human. I think I must have been picking up the symbiote." He reconsidered his opinion on the Columbia Inn receptionist - maybe Maybelle had a symbiotic relationship as well.

"So the symbiote - any guesses?"

"The species?" Castiel asked with a shrug, "I'm not familiar with it. What about you?"

Jack's nod was tight. "A couple possibilities. The eye thing is new - but it makes spotting them easier. Anything else?"

"Glenn was shaking."

"That, I saw. I wonder if his pals in there saw it too."

The sky overhead dimmed abruptly, as large clouds passed over the opalescent sun. Castiel looked up, and frowned at the dark line of clouds creeping towards them. "We should find this church," he said, "I think it's going to snow tonight."

Jack's soft laugh was accompanied by a puff of frost. "I think this town might riot if it didn't. But we need to be careful, Castiel. That wasn't the most subtle conversation I had with that kid in the diner. If there's something going on, he won't be at that church alone. Plus, we still don't know why he's so eager to meet with us in the first place."

"We need a plan."

Jack pulled a datapad from his pocket and searched for the directions to 'St. Mary's,' which did, in fact, turn out to be a church. "Let's scope this place out. We've got a few hours before the kid gets off his shift."

Castiel nodded. "One more thing."

"Mm?"

"What's the weapons policy on this planet?"

* * *

 

Jack strolled the narrow aisle of St. Mary's church, admiring the stained glass while he waited for Glenn to appear. The lights hadn't been turned on for Christmas Eve service yet. Two soaring potted fir trees flanked the pulpit, their white lights and glittering foil ornaments softening the dark.

Jack took a seat in the front row, folding his hands. Overhead, the church bells chimed twice.

Ten minutes later, the heavy doors to the sanctuary creaked open. They fell shut with a rattling clang, and Glenn-the-waiter made his way up the aisle, taking the pew behind Jack. "I didn't know if you'd be here," Glenn said, "we've got to be quick. Where's the other guy?" He craned around the dark sanctuary.

"Not important," Jack said, looking over his shoulder at Glenn, "why did you ask me to come here?" His voice echoed in the empty space, even at an undertone.

Glenn leaned on the back of Jack's pew, clutching the soft wood curve. "Because you're Torchwood, right? Maybelle called me, soon as she checked you in."

"I think you and Maybelle are a little confused," Jack chuckled, "I'm here for the Christmas show. I'll be late for trivia night if you don't get to the point."

Glenn tapped his index finger on the pew. "I thought maybe Maybelle was cracked up, but then I saw you myself. You're Captain Jack Harkness. And you wouldn't be here if you weren't Torchwood. If you were just some tourist come to see the whackadoos, you would've laughed that note all the way to the garbage. Or thought I was some kind of call-boy with a priest kink."

The amusement slid off of Jack's face. "That doesn't explain how you know Torchwood. What do you want?"

"Well, I don't know you. Not personally. But you met my symbiote's ancestors," Glenn added quickly, "His name's Arkeem, and he's a Dellacoi."

Jack rubbed his forehead. "Dellacoi. _Dellacoi_?" His head snapped up. "They turned a bunch of film zombies loose on my city!"

Glenn beamed. "That'd be him, yeah. Brilliant, right? What they can do? His people, they got a collective memory. Believe me, we wouldn't forget _you_." A noise in the church foyer made Glenn's head whip around. He turned back to Jack a moment later, ducked, and whispered, "we need your help, Jack!"

Jack raised a quelling hand. "Whoa, slow down, what—"

"They want to rip him out!" Glenn's fingers clenched on the pew, knuckles white, "Rip out my symbiote, and Maybelle's and everybody's! They think we're dangerous. They don't understand!" He leaned close to Jack, desperation lining his features. One hand flattened over his navel like a shield.

Jack turned to face Glenn completely. He put a hand over the tight knuckles on the back of the bench. "Look. Glenn. Calm down. If you've got a symbiote, you know the laws. Galactic Symbiotic Rights - so long as you and Arkeem can prove that you've consented to this partnership, nobody in this galaxy can separate you for any reason."

"Oh sure, sure," Glenn said bitterly, head down, "we've got the paperwork. But they want to change the laws. They say I didn't know what I was getting into."

"Who's 'they'?" Jack asked.

Before Glenn could answer, the sound of rapid footfalls made them both turn.

Glenn jumped to his feet. "Chance?" he choked, "Wh-what are you doing here?"

Two men in fedoras and long dark coats stood in the aisle, blocking the exit. "Sorry, Glenn," said one, and Jack recognized the short order cook at the diner, "But we're gonna have to ask you to cut this little powwow short."

Jack put a steadying hand on Glenn's shoulder. He faced the strangers. "I take it you boys are 'they.'"

The stranger who'd spoken made a mocking little half-bow. "Guilty. Chance," he said, gesturing to himself, then to his partner, "Lucky."

"Pleasure. Captain Jack Harkness. Imagine there's a story behind those code names. Either that or you need to have a word with whoever's handing them out."

Chance grinned, the rest of his face lost beneath his hat. "Speaking of stories, I'm sure our Glenn's told you a good one by now."

Jack stepped around the pew, into the aisle. "Is it true?"

Chance rearranged the lapels of his coat. "That we want to free Glenn and the rest of the people on Crosby 7? Yes, sir. That's true."

Jack shrugged. "Looks to me like they're already free."

"Well, that's a matter of perspective."

A few big strides carried Jack past Glenn, until he was inches from the two suits. "And 'perspective' is a long way from truth, Chance," Jack said, steely calm, "whatever you're planning, you're wasting your time."

"I'd say the same for you," Chance replied, "which is why I'm here. To warn you. You have no idea what you've walked into. Play monster hunter somewhere else, Jack."

Jack waggled his eyebrows and took another step closer. "Or what? Heh, so far, all you've done is talk. Come on, big fella. Scare me."

Chance broke from his companion, stepping out to meet Jack. "Scare you?" He seemed amused by the thought, a fine dimple appearing on each cheek as he smiled, "You should already be terrified." The dimples vanished. "The Dellacoi are a bunch of murdering scum. They ruin every species they touch. And they're everywhere on this planet! They're all around you!"

Jack laughed. "Aside from soy milk in my malt—"

"Sorry Jack," Glenn muttered.

"—and a little too much pomade," Jack continued, "I really haven't found much fault with the good people of Pinetree. To be honest, _you're_ the one throwing around threats. Plus stalking, eavesdropping, and copying my style." He looked over the two strangers with disdain. "Did I leave anything out?"

"You're out of Torchwood's jurisdiction," said Chance, "If you involve yourself in this, Jack Harkness, we will take measures to protect our interests."

Jack smiled nastily. "If you know who I am, you know what I'm capable of. You may want to rethink that threat."

Somewhere in the folds of Chance's coat was a muffled click. "I don't think so. You don't know the first thing about me, Jack." He raised his head, letting light under the brim of his fedora. White-blue eyes caught the light. "I'm a Survivor. I was a Dellacoi's host. Just like Glenn, here. _Years,_ with a tactical officer. A military _genius_. And by 'host,' I mean," Chance squashed an imaginary bug with his thumb on the back of the nearest pew, "hostage. It was like being buried alive."

"I'm sorry," Jack said, "I'm glad you escaped."

"I didn't _escape,_ " Chance hissed in Jack's face, "I was _dumped._ They use us, they kidnap and torture and kill by the hundreds. And they leave us when they're tired of listening to us scream." Chance finished, voice tight, "I don't even remember who I was."

"Assuming I believe your story, what's your plan? The law's not on your side here, Chance. It's a _big_ galaxy."

"Law?" Lucky scoffed.

Chance smirked. "We're past that, Jack. We're gonna use this planet to show everybody the truth. These things are all one trigger trip away from the things that chewed us up and spat us out. _The law_ won't make much difference after that."

"This is revenge," Jack said softly, "call it what it is. It won't fix you. Trust me, I know. I've been there."

The brim of the dark fedora dipped. Chance frowned. "Maybe. But the satisfaction of wiping these little snot balls from the universe? It'll _help_."

He drew the source of the click from his coat, revealing a snub-nosed silver pistol.

As he was squeezing the trigger, a body fell from the choir loft.

The body landed squarely on Chance's head. His shot went wild as the dead weight of a third man - also wearing a black coat and fedora - sent him sprawling to the floor. The bullet clipped Jack's neck, the roar and heat of its passing leaving him momentarily stunned.

Lucky launched himself at Jack with a yell. Clearly, Lucky hadn't been host to the same tactical savant as his companion. Jack dodged him at the last second and grabbed him on the way by. A little extra _oomph_ applied, and Lucky cracked his head hard enough on the nearest pew to knock him out cold.

Jack turned around to find Castiel kneeling on Chance's chest. The stranger was unconscious, his nose and mouth trickling with fresh blood. His fedora rolled over the toes of Jack's boots.

"I'm sorry for the delay, Jack," Castiel said, "they sent someone to search the choir loft."

"You didn't do your disappearing act?" Jack asked. He touched his neck with a wince, shook out a handkerchief, and pressed it to the wound.

"I was holding power in reserve, in case I needed to resurrect Glenn," Castiel replied, put out.

"No sweat," Glenn grinned, sitting in the aisle, back to the end of a pew and looking miraculously unhurt, "Arkeem makes me like Superman."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Service will be starting in less than two hours, there's a bullet lodged in the altar, and a dead man on the floor."

"Can you—?"

"No. I've been too far from Earth for too long; I don't have the energy to disperse his molecules. I'm sorry, Jack," Castiel repeated, irritation dissolving into exhaustion. As if acknowledging his difficulties brought them to the fore, Castiel found it a challenge just to stay on his feet.

Jack shot him an assessing glance, then waved him off with his free hand. "Let's get this mess cleaned up. We can worry about the rest after these two boys aren't in a position to give us any more trouble." He glanced at Chance's bloody nose. "I don't remember landing that punch."

"You didn't," Castiel said with a shrug, and flexed his knuckles.

* * *

 

Castiel had just enough power to put the two men into a deep trance. Hands and feet tied, they now occupied the back of the choir robe closet. By the time they woke up, Castiel asserted as he leaned heavily on Jack and Glenn, someone would be able to come back and deal with them.

They hailed a cab on Main Street and brought Glenn back to the Columbia Inn, in case anyone else felt like taking a swing at them. It was late afternoon, and the snow began feathering down in fat Christmas card flakes. Castiel rested his forehead against the cold window, hypnotized by the snow. When his breath fogged the glass, he closed his eyes.

"Most of the people running the show in Pinetree - and everybody else, really - are like me and Maybelle," Glenn was explaining, aided occasionally by the cabbie. Small, grey and amorphous (honestly, they looked a bit like snot), the Dellacoi were a pretty nonthreatening people on their own. They also collectively _adored_ the work of Bing Crosby and his contemporaries. Even Glenn had no explanation for this. But Pinetree was their creation of love. Glenn was an actor and screenwriter, with an interest in ancient human film that crept just past the line of 'hobby.' He and Arkeem seemed to be made for one another.

Once the Dellacoi took a host, they passed gifts of strength and long life to their partner - hence Glenn's 'Superman' remark. That, along with their unique ability to 'dream' things into reality made them frightening. Their physical similarities to leeches, worms and other parasites certainly didn't help.

To make matters worse, just a few years ago certain Dellacoi clans had begun to use their advantages in pursuit of power. They had a violent, bloody reputation. Chance and Lucky were discards from the worst of the lot. According to Glenn, 'Survivors for an Independent Future' - as Chance and others like them called themselves - lobbied ferociously with the Galactic Federation to overturn Universal Symbiotic Rights. None of them had become hosts willingly. They carried an immense burden of understandable pain.

Castiel felt pity, and guilt. He reminded himself that Chance pulled a weapon on Jack, and that he'd only killed the third man in self defense.

It didn't help much.

"Arkeem's _nothing_ like those jerks," Glenn insisted, "He's part of who I am, and I like the life we've got. But we're not welcome anywhere now, except here. We don't know how much longer that'll last, but we're gonna fight it."

"We just wanna be left alone," the cabbie added over the front seat, "Wish those boys would sort their own ghosts, 'stead of looking for new ones!"

"What do you think they're planning, Glenn?" Jack asked. His fingers crept up into Castiel's hair at the nape of his neck, working circles into the muscle. Castiel was still surprised that his vessel could hold tension, all these years later. He felt himself melt under the touch.

Glenn shifted in his seat. "I dunno. I wish I knew. When Chance and Lucky came to town, I thought maybe we could be friends, you know? We could help. But then more of 'em showed up. Once I figured that out, I called up some friends. Seven Cities, Blue Sky, Broadway - nothing. Not a peep."

"You can tell if they don't have a symbiote?"

"Arkeem can pick 'em out. Maybelle said she thought you two were Survivors, until she saw your names."

"That explains a few things," Castiel remarked.

The cab rattled across the tiny wooden bridge in front of the Columbia Inn, slowing as it pulled into the circle drive. Castiel was relieved to find his energy returning, at least enough to get the heavy cab door open on his own steam.

"It'll be the show," Jack burst out, stopped dead in the middle of the drive, "It _has_ to be." He turned to Glenn. "There's a rehearsal tonight. You and Maybelle, meet us for dinner. If anyone makes a fuss, I'll insist."

Glenn's jaw firmed up with resolve. He saluted - or tried to. Jack snagged his wrist halfway up.

"Whoa, heh, downplay that a little, all right?" Jack said.

Glenn nodded and bounded off to find Maybelle.

When he was gone, Jack caught Castiel's arm and looped it over his shoulders. He grinned. "I can't bring myself to tell him — nobody was that bouncy outside of the movies," Jack said.

Peering after Glenn in surprise, Castiel asked, "That's an affectation?"

"Probably at some point," Jack laughed, "I hope. Come on. Let's get you upstairs and recharge those batteries before dinner."

"I hope your plan involves a nap."

"It involves a bath, _and_ a nap."

"Even better."

* * *

 

The hideous wallpaper in Castiel's cabin left afterimages on his eyes as he undressed. He assumed the print was intended to be flowers, but the pistils looked like onion bulbs, and were the kind of bilious green that suggested bacterial infections. He wondered what kind of personality would pick a pattern this unsettling for a bedroom. Was it meant to be ironic? Humorous? Castiel had been conscious during the Fifties, but he couldn't say he'd spent much time examining interior design.

Jack called his name from the bathroom. Castiel smiled, feeling a bit less wooden, and let the invitation draw him through the suite. The room was furnished in period style (to Castiel's taste - unappealing) but the clawfoot tub was large and filled with steaming blue water and white foam. The scent of frankincense met him almost before he reached the door.

Jack caught his hands and towed him in, finishing undressing him where Castiel left off. Jack, of course, had already skinned out of his clothes, wearing nothing but a fuzzy white towel around his waist.

"You seem very certain that Chance's army plans to stage something at the tribute tomorrow night," Castiel said, as they practiced a little teamwork on the buttons. It wasn't quite a question.

"It's the biggest draw on the planet. This show is a huge tourist attraction," Jack explained, "people show up from all over the galaxy - to see the whackadoos," he said with a shake of his head, borrowing Glenn-the-waiter's word from earlier in the day. "High profile, lots of bodies in the door. If something happens tomorrow night, news'll spread like lightning." Pushing Castiel's pants down his hips to the floor, Jack stepped back and dropped his towel with a wink. "Less talk, more action, flyboy. That battery needs charging."

Castiel waited for Jack to settle in. He climbed into the tub and levered himself into the foam. The warm water surrounded his skin, soothing as it insulated him from the cold. And there was Jack, solid and just as warm, catching Castiel when he finally landed. His head dropped back onto Jack's shoulder, and a wet forearm came up to pillow his cheek.

"That's better," Jack murmured, smiling into Castiel's hair, and it _was_ better. Jack's powerful life force sizzled through the skin contact, filling the empty places in Castiel where Heaven could not reach.

"What's your plan?" Castiel asked. He searched for more words, and couldn't find any - really couldn't find the presence of mind to care about much of anything. The heat seeped in at the middle and spread out. Living energy flowed through him from Jack just from the contact, but the ritual wasn't yet complete. Jack murmured a soft few notes of Enochian - an invitation - and the steady stream became a torrent. Anesthesia, with the speed of morphine in the vein. Castiel's mind was floating in warm blue water as well, and he closed his eyes.

Jack's free hand roamed his ribs, while he breathed in the rich ancient resins in the bathwater. He kissed Castiel's hair, his temple; kept his voice to a low murmur right at Castiel's ear. The brush of breath was suddenly erotic, and Castiel's spine arched a little at the hard consonants. "We'll scout it out tonight at rehearsal," Jack said, "how many there are, what they do. It's the show, I _know_ it, but I don't know how."

His hand swept a little lower on Castiel's stomach, and an agreeable growl bubbled up from Castiel's chest. He felt _good_. Almost high. Well… yes. Not almost, _high_. "You have guesses," he observed, and reached down to rearrange Jack's hand more to his liking. Jack chuckled, heat sliding through the soft notes. His fingers wrapped obligingly around Castiel and the spike of pleasure made the angel grope blindly for the sides of the tub.

"Mmhm," Jack hummed, "still interested?"

"Very."

After a few exploratory strokes that somehow felt like white tea with honey in Castiel's throat and velvet on his skin, Jack expounded. "What's the one thing that stands out here? The one thing that's strange?"

Castiel could think of a number of things, or might have, had there not been the slick, steady pull of Jack's palm. "I don't know."

"Yes you do. Think under duress, soldier."

"This is hardly what I'd call—duress," Castiel gasped, as Jack's fingertips worked underneath him, rubbing in slow circles. The power pouring into him lit every nerve, or so it felt. With a groan, he arched and ground down, pushing into Jack's hand.

" _Come on,_ Castiel," Jack ordered, which was maybe not the best thing to do to get an angel to focus in a situation like this. Especially considering the location of Jack's fingertips.

" _Jack_ ," Castiel cried out, bucking, until his force of will reasserted itself. He forced his vessel to quiet, and swallowed a hard breath. Then another. And when he could think over the hum of arousal and drugged pleasure in his blood, the answer slipped out of his memories. Of all he'd seen today.

"Bing Crosby," Castiel said. Which was a name he'd prefer never to utter during sex again, really.

Jack's laughter was heady, holding a note of desire now as well. "Nice work. Yeah. Why are they all so obsessed with him? A fanclub, sure. Theme park? Why not? But a whole _planet_?"

"There's more to it," Castiel sighed, trying very hard not to fidget. He couldn't _quite_ feel the pressure of Jack's fingertip right now, and as a result his higher mental functions were less of a struggle. "What about him resonates with the Dellacoi?"

"Besides his dulcet tones? First thought was the eyes. Maybe he really _was_ a—wait. _Resonance._ " Jack's hand vanished in his excitement. The grumpy noise of protest got out of Castiel's throat before he could contain it, but Jack's touch returned in a moment, fingernails running in thoughtful waves along Castiel's inner thigh.

"His voice. The vibrations, maybe," Jack mused on.

Castiel sighed, took a deep breath or two, and willed his vessel to relax again. It complained, but a little at a time, his frustration began to fade. "If it has an effect on them, I can help you track it," he said, "They'll play _White Christmas_ tonight."

"Oh, at _least,_ " Jack snorted. "So I'll take some readings, you watch our co-stars, and maybe we'll overhear something. Presuming Chance and Lucky haven't lived up to their names and got loose, and someone shoots us on sight."

"Let me check." Still riding a golden high, Castiel picked up the thread of power he'd extended to put Chance and Lucky to sleep. He followed it, boosted by Jack's gift of life force, and found two still-sleeping minds in the rear of a church closet. "They haven't been found," Castiel reported. Feeling a shred of whimsy (and no small guilt), he reached out, touching their thoughts. Golden unicorns slipped through their dreams, singing 'Blue Skies' while they tap-danced.

As he was doing so, Castiel felt the pulse jump in his distant vessel, arousal clouding his thoughts in bright red curves. He withdrew quickly from the sleeping men, closing off the connection before they could overhear, and shift their dreams into a far less innocuous realm.

Best not mix unicorns and sex.

"Worried I'd forgotten?" Jack teased, hands just sliding down Castiel's thighs as he returned from his light trance.

Castiel pushed away from him. When Jack let him go, he came back, turning to ease into Jack's lap. "A little, yes," Castiel confessed.

* * *

 

By the time they'd dressed for dinner and headed down to the dining room, Castiel's high had mostly dissipated. He still felt good; felt better than he had in days, really. Capable of handling anything - including whatever the Survivors had in mind. He kept close on Jack's left. The ritual always left an emotional residue, and he felt better for staying within touching distance.

Glenn and Maybelle were waiting in the Inn lobby. Maybelle was a bright spot of color on the black and white checkered tiles. Jack caught her fingers and bent over her wrist in a courtly show of manners. Her vivid rosy gown matched the blush on her cheeks - not from embarrassment, but nerves. Her round, worried eyes followed him.

"Are we safe?" Maybelle asked, leaning into Castiel's space to whisper.

"We don't believe anything will happen tonight," Castiel answered, working at a reassuring smile.

Jack eased between Maybelle and Glenn, linking arms with a cocky grin. "Just stick with us, kids," he chuckled, and led the charge into the dining hall.

As they sat, Castiel caught the glint of silver on Maybelle's left hand. There was a matching band on Glenn's ring finger, and he looked up at them both in surprise. "You're married?"

Glenn grinned. "Bonded. The Dellacoi don't really do marriage. Only the royalty does that."

It was hard to imagine something like the Dellacoi - gray and small and featureless as they were - having royal lines. Castiel's rebellious brain supplied an image of a slug wearing a Windsor crown and shooed it away, embarrassed with himself. "All four of you are… bonded?"

Glenn and Maybelle nodded, sharing sweet, shy smiles.

Castiel couldn't help but wonder how that worked. Goodness knew he and Jack could barely tolerate each other some days, and _they_ weren't under any sort of contractual obligation. A dozen more questions flitted through his thoughts, but - sensing that most of them were perilously close to crossing the borders of most personal boundaries - he kept them at bay.

Dinner passed with an uneventful smoothness that made Castiel wary. The dining hall was huge and full of people, and he took his time scanning the other guests while Jack kept their tablemates occupied. There were seventy-eight symbiotes at the tables, and twenty-six humans. Castiel and Maybelle struck up a little camaraderie, as he pointed out faces and she gave them names and relationships from her shift at the desk. She had an excellent memory, and helped him winnow down the dinner crowd for possible suspects, one table at a time.

When her expertise ran out, Castiel let his awareness drifted over the tables, watching surface thoughts scurry across the diners' brains like mice. Sparks of joy, flashes of irritation, washes of worry - he saw them all, glowing and changing in a brilliant living network.

Finding the Survivors in the crowd was like tripping into a puddle of icy water. A thick cloud of depression hung over the group. As Castiel drew closer, he started to wonder what he was doing. This was a rank invasion of privacy. Dean would hate him for doing this, if he were still alive. Which he wasn't. These were humans and they deserved better than this. How could he expect to thwart the Survivors' plot, when he'd been here for less than twenty-four hours and seemed to be going entirely on the information of a _diner employee._ Not that food service workers weren't intelligent, and Castiel felt awful for inferring—

He felt someone squeeze his arm.

These people were _hurting_. He should leave them alone, there was absolutely nothing Castiel could reasonably expect to do, to alleviate their suffering. He was an angel, he couldn't understand the first thing about human emotions and had no right to—

Soft lips nibbled behind his ear.

Castiel felt sick. Guilty, and sad, frustrated, and utterly defeated. They should run. Leave this place, leave these people before they made it worse—

Pain. Teeth sank into Castiel's earlobe, intense enough to snap up his defenses. He dropped back into his vessel, jumped away from the source of the pain, and slammed his knees into the table leg. The place settings rattled, loud enough to be heard over the music. Everyone was staring at him, including Jack - who also had his hand and was squeezing, hard enough to _almost_ hurt.

"Okay?" Jack asked. He let up on Castiel's fingers, but still looked worried.

With a shake of his head, Castiel discarded his treacherous thoughts. "I'm all right, Jack," he said, keeping his eyes down and rubbing his ear, "I think I found them."

Jack leaned in, hand settling between Castiel's shoulders. "Did they do something? Where are they?"

"They're in pain," Castiel said, and couldn't elaborate further. He massaged his forehead, as a headache began to throb between his eyes.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," Maybelle said, rubbing her temple.

"Well, we had to do _something_ , didn't we?" Glenn asked in a furious whisper, "Can you read 'em, Cas?"

Cas. He hadn't heard the shortened version of his name in centuries. He was always _Castiel,_ since Dean and Sam Winchester. And now here it was again, like a ghost looming up to warn him. Dean would have ripped him up one side and down the other for reading thoughts - much less the thoughts of a dozen battle-scarred veterans. Sam would have asked him _why_.

"No," Castiel said firmly, squeezing his eyes as the headache intensified, "I can't. Not without their permission - which they're unlikely to give, for obvious reasons." His tone sharpened at the end, and Glenn sat back a little from the table, stung.

Sensing his misstep, Castiel sighed in frustration. He put a palm over his eyes, pressing on one eyesocket with his palm. "I'm sorry. But they're suffering. I will not add to that burden."

"But—" Glenn protested.

"Let's move on, shall we?" Jack interrupted smoothly, and checked his watch. "I think the rehearsal should be starting soon. Castiel, where did you spot their table?"

"Three tables at the edge of the stage, right side," Castiel replied, not looking up. The headache stretched around his skull like a band of iron, squeezing. Unusual in its intensity, but familiar at the same time. "Something's wrong."

The chair next to him scraped, and then Jack stood behind him. Hovering, one hand warm on Castiel's shoulder. Castiel's mind produced the image of Jack with wings, mantled around him like a territorial hawk. "Time to go," Jack said quietly.

Comprehension hit Castiel then, and he recognized the pain for what it was. "It's a summons," he said, "It's the Garrison."

"The Garrison?" Jack echoed, "All the way out here?"

"It feels like them," Castiel explained, "but it's static."

"Out of range?" The fingers on Castiel's shoulder relaxed a little, but Jack's voice was wary.

The unease in his posture echoed Castiel's own doubts. He hadn't heard from Heaven in years. "Possibly," Castiel said, "but I'm not sure—"

Still wincing, rubbing his screaming temple, Castiel looked up. Jack's hand tightened on him at the same time, and they watched the rest of the room in shock.

Masked by ambient music, conversations were impossible to overhear. It didn't matter - the body language at each table was an open book. Diners gestured in sharp, jerky movements. They leaned aggressively into one another's faces, bared their teeth, squared their shoulders and jaws. Someone stood up from their table, shoving their chair back hard enough to knock it over. Tension in the dining hall thickened, until Castiel's skin crawled with it.

It was happening at their own table; Maybelle and Glenn bickered in terse bursts, waving their hands at one another.

The pain ratcheted up a notch higher. Castiel's vision was suddenly awash in curls of shimmering rainbow hues. When he closed his eyes, the colors remained.

His vessel's skull had been in a vice once. This neared the memory of that experience. He pushed out of his chair, determined to fight through it; find the source. The bands of color distorted his vision, and Castiel blundered right into Jack's shoulder.

And then it was gone. Like water rushing through a broken dam, the pain poured out of him. In a few breaths, the color bands dissipated, and Castiel could clearly make out Jack's bewildered face.

Others around them weren't so lucky. A number of people were rubbing their heads. Some looked decidedly ill.

"I'm all right," Castiel said, softly, as if the words could break. He patted Jack's shoulder and pushed away. "That was _not_ the Garrison."

Jack's jaw was granite. "Didn't think so."

Glenn stammered his goodnights in a wet voice and plunged out of the dining hall. A desperately apologetic Maybelle galloped close on his heels.

* * *

 

The rehearsal went on as if nothing had happened. Honestly, the Columbia Inn was a _resort_ \- the kind of place where even natural disasters couldn't stop the dance classes and trivia charades. So, at Castiel's insistence, they played along.

What had happened to cause such a reaction? While most of the room was affected, Jack seemed completely untouched - and so did the Survivors. Castiel didn't think it much of a stretch to assume his migraine had been brought on by the same thing, although he didn't seem to respond quite as aggressively as their Dellacoi tablemates. There hadn't been a peep from Glenn and Maybelle since their exit; Castiel guessed they were still working through whatever argument surfaced as a result.

Only one thing could cause Garrison static - someone accessed the frequency. Angels communicated just like everyone else: with waves of energy. Angel Radio just required a different variation on the theme.

Thankfully, the whole business of 'rehearsal' was simple enough, designed for tourists with no theater experience - like him. Who to look at and where to stand, mostly. A few renditions of _The Old Man_ , a few more of _White Christmas_. Singing was something he didn't quite have the knack for - but Jack did. Oh, Jack did. In spite of the evening's complications, Castiel still had his work cut out for him to focus on the task at hand and not the way Jack's voice poured over the air like warm, fresh water.

He managed. Barely, but he managed. Castiel watched the others, capturing the thoughts and emotions around him with the barest brush of touch. Some of them were still in pain. Others were shaken by what had happened. Still others seemed blithely unaware, or unconcerned about what had befallen them. Their director seemed especially keen to put dinner behind them, her jolly mood almost frantic.

Then there were the Survivors. Two of them had apparently volunteered for the presentation, their compatriots staying behind to watch at the front tables. Castiel reached out to them, shuddering at the cold in their minds. A shard-sharp sense of _purpose_ surrounded them, fogged over with a grey murk of despair.

The spark of humanity in them was weak, like a candle at the bottom of a well. That vulnerability called to Castiel, haunting him that night as he and Jack sat by the windows overlooking the courtyard, weapons in hand. Snow fell in sheets of crystal now, folding the Columbia Inn within a thick froth of apricot light. Outside, it was brighter than it would have been on a clear night. On the desk nearby, Jack's datapad analyzed the readings gathered from Jack's wrist strap during dinner. The ambient blue glow of the Torchwood software filled the room.

"The Survivors need help, Jack," Castiel said.

Jack laid his hand on the butt of the assault rifle on his lap and gave him a long look. Castiel dropped his gaze with a flush of chagrin.

"I know," Castiel muttered, "but this whole thing comes from their pain. If they _didn't_ blame the Dellacoi for their pain, we wouldn't be sitting here right now."

For a few minutes, silence held. Jack let go a deep sigh. "I get what you're saying, Castiel, I do. But I think you've figured out what they're planning tomorrow, and they almost put you down during the test run - not to mention a hundred people at each other's throats. Where does reasoning with them fall in your plan?"

Castiel glared out at the snow. "Somewhere after 'not killing them,'" he snorted.

Jack chuckled.

"I don't know when you started to sound like Rose Tyler, Castiel, but it sure wasn't because of me. Oh, hey—" he leaned over, as the last few percents ticked down on the datapad status bar. It gave an error beep and spat out a laundry list of findings. "—Yahtzee! There were definitely some subsonic frequencies playing in that room." He urged Castiel over to the computer, and sat back to give him a closer look.

Castiel studied the numbers, rendering into curves and equations in his mind. He breathed out a sigh of relief, glad to be right. "Subsonic vibrations can trigger anxiety response in humans," he said, trailing off.

"That can't be right," Jack challenged, "anxiety's not the same thing as wanting to punch your date in the kisser."

"Of course not. But you said it yourself. What's the anomaly? What sticks out?" Castiel dragged the datapad closer, and sent the Torchwood software off on another hunt.

Jack tilted his head. After a minute or two, he hazarded a guess: "Bing Crosby?"

When the software surfaced again with the data Castiel wanted, he overlaid it on Jack's findings and handed the datapad back. "I think the appropriate response here is 'Bing-o.'"

Jack groaned. "You should be court-martialed for that. Crosby's voice and the 'Sound of the Fury' we caught tonight are almost polar opposites. So if Bing's keeping the Dellacoi blissfully _happy_ then—"

"—it's not a very _good_ theory, but—"

"Close enough for government work." Jack was on his feet. "Come on, Castiel, let's go take a look at the dining hall again. We can be sitting ducks up here, or we can make a couple handsome moving targets."

Castiel dug through his duffel bag for a flashlight. "We'll need to be cautious," he said, then flinched as a few threads of power snapped back to him from out of the ether. "and we need to hurry."

"Yeah?"

"Chance and Lucky just woke up."

* * *

 

Night transformed the dining hall into a shadowy cavern. Castiel's flashlight cut a slice of friendly light as they moved through the room. If the Survivors weren't using some equipment of their own to transmit the 'Sound of the Fury' frequency - as Jack had taken to calling it - the Inn's AV tech would be the ticket.

The soundboard was lovingly kept up, but ancient. Neither it nor its equally ancient laptop offered a clue. Castiel searched with increasing frustration through the onstage sound equipment for signs of tampering, an errant external drive plugged into a port, or a piece of equipment he didn't recognize. Unfortunately—

"Find anything?"

"…It clearly plays some kind of music."

—audio electronics were not Castiel's forte.

On the floor and half underneath the stage, Jack banged on a support pillar in glee. "Castiel, we're looking in the wrong place."

Castiel straightened from investigating another arcane electronic device. "And the right place would be—"

"Wherever the canned music from dinner was coming from!"

Which resulted in a five-minute discussion about 'canned music,' attendant on Jack's shock that an omniscient wavelength of Celestial intent had been wandering around humans for _this long_ and never grasped one of humanity's most loathed soundscapes: Muzak.

"They stream this stuff for weeks, years maybe, without stopping," Jack added, dusting himself off as he got to his feet, "it's horrible. Crime against nature. D'you know the Time Agency had to stop an assassination attempt on the guy who invented it?"

"I could empathize," Castiel quipped dryly, then gestured to the soundboard once more. "There's a laptop hooked into that. Could it stream this music?"

Jack sauntered back towards the soundboard, still lost in his memories. "The emperor of Muzak Seven got so annoyed at the poor slob for calling it 'Muzak' that he tried to put out a hit on the guy. Defamation of character, he called it. Or something like that."

He pressed a button on the face of the laptop, and the operating system wallowed to life. "That emperor got himself a reprimand from the Galactic Council. Apparently you can't have a guy killed for accidentally making the universe think you invented elevator music. I think they just changed the name of the planet, instead. Wow."

Castiel leaned over his shoulder. "What?"

Jack whistled. "The operating system. It's _Windows 10_."

A search for audio files on the laptop turned up nothing but a rendition of _Jingle Bells_ , sung by cats.

No accounting for taste, Castiel thought with a huff. Then again, he was currently standing in the dining hall a flawless recreation of a 1954 recreation of a 1952 Vermont ski resort. With absolutely hideous wallpaper. All things considered, a campy song performed by squalling cats could practically be the theme song for this entire adventure.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, glaring at the empty search window, then snapped his fingers. "That's it! Nobody actually keeps music on their hard drives anymore - this thing has Internet connectivity."

He popped open the browser, examined the history, and crowed. "There's a hundred entries in here, all the same. Except last night." Jack pointed to the second entry, which was the address of an online dropbox service. When Jack visited it, the site requested a login.

Most sites these days required some sort of biometric login. But this ancient laptop didn't even have a place to scan a thumbprint or take a DNA swab. Jack cracked his knuckles. "Clary, Tosh, Ren-ahn - they'd all be laughing right now. Evilly." He reached for his wrist strap.

Castiel left him to it, moving out into the sea of tables. Fresh linens had been laid out for breakfast, and the white circles were dim islands in the gloom. He pushed his senses outward, scanning the perimeter of the Inn.

Four warm, human bodies made their way in from the circle drive. Judging from their heartrates, they'd walked at least part of the way, and all of them carried weapons. Castiel recognized Chance and Lucky - and the red mist of rage that coated their thoughts. "They're coming," Castiel growled, heading for the double doors that led to the lobby, "how much longer?"

"Five minutes. Give or take."

"Get behind the soundboard." Castiel's blade dropped into his hand with a fraction of will.

Jack snatched the laptop and crouched under the soundboard, shielding the glow of the screen with his coat. "Going to stand by what you said?"

"I have no intentions of _touching_ any of them," Castiel snapped, stalking into the lobby. He galloped for the stairs and crouched in the striped shadows, gathering power behind his intent like a thunderstorm.

Chance had the lead - Castiel could see them through the glass. Given Lucky and Chance's old-school behavior so far, Castiel expected them to shatter the glass - and was surprised when Chance pointed a candybar-sized remote at the card swipe by the front door. The deadbolt clacked.

Castiel waited.

He didn't know much about theater productions, but - thanks to his association with a veritable _string_ of expert conmen - he had plenty of experience in melodrama. His quarry was completely preoccupied with the dining hall, and made a beeline for the double doors. They walked past the staircase without a glance.

Castiel stood up.

He let the power coiled around him free. Suddenly he felt hollow, fire spinning and fluming inside him as if he were the glass chimney of a hurricane lamp. It boiled out of him in sparks and flares, and the whole Inn lobby went white with intense, bright light. Heat followed, so fast that the warmed air rolled away from Castiel with a thunderclap.

Lucky, Chance, and their compatriots staggered back, over one another, and fell to the checkerboard tile.

He hadn't used this particular parlor trick in years, not since angels went a bit out of fashion. But, the Survivors had enough old-fashioned sensibilities to dress like mobsters, hang out at diners, and take code names like 'Lucky' and 'Chance.' Faith would always be a juggernaut of humanity, whatever its trappings.

It was worth a shot.

Features obscured behind the glow of a small sun, eyes empty with intense blue light (honestly that particular use of power made his vessel's eyeballs itch and tingle), Castiel glided down the staircase towards them. "YOU FORSAKE ME," Castiel boomed. His true form had multiple faces, multiple voices. With the gift of Jack's life force they added their voices to his now: a lion's rumble and an eagle's scream. Light poured from his mouth, his wrists, and the blade at his hip.

His four targets cowered on the floor. One of them managed a quiet "…what?" in a meek, disoriented voice.

The faint sparks of their souls soaked in the power Castiel poured over them, and grew. "I KNOW YOUR PAIN," Castiel declared, reaching for the truth even as he wavered guiltily at their fear, "IT WOULD HAVE YOU DO EVIL."

"What do you want?" Lucky asked. The others shrank back, but he reached out. It was a gesture of utterly human faith and courage, and Castiel had never stopped being affected by it. He held out his hand in turn, stretching his wings to the ceiling with a roll of his shoulders.

"TURN BACK," he ordered, straining a little to remember the right words, "THESE ARE NOT YOUR PERSECUTORS."

Caught up in the moment, surprised at how much he'd missed this feeling, Castiel forgot an important detail.

His powers were no longer bestowed from on high.

They were the Frankenstein's Monster of an Enochian invocation and sex with Captain Jack Harkness, and they were finite.

Like a gas burner, Castiel's energy guttered, spit out a few last sparks, and died. He staggered, slamming his shoulder into the wall with most of his weight. And it _hurt,_ because at this moment, Castiel was terrifyingly mortal.

He and the four Survivors stared at one another in horrified silence.

" _ **JACK!**_ " Castiel shouted, spun, and ran up the stairs.

His legs felt like lead. His lungs burned. Every part of him howled in pain, as all of his vessel's little injuries and wear compounded at once. Prey became the predator, and his quarry dragged him down in seconds. He fell, temple cracking against the next riser, and his thoughts spattered away like raindrops.

Dimly, he felt rough hands flip him over. Felt his blade yanked from his fist, one of its three sharp edges pressed to his throat.

At the first gunshot, Castiel's perception of time slowed to a crawl. His attackers flinched beneath the deafening crack, and the blade bit into Castiel's skin. Then they turned as one body, taking his blade with them as they fell on Jack.

Castiel couldn't seem to stop staring at the balustrade, curving up and away from him while the violence continued below. His eyes flicked from one white spindle to the next, to the next, and when he tried to pull away the process began again. Panic drove up his pulse and his breath, which matched the rhythm of his shifting gaze, which matched the rhythm of the meaty thumps downstairs. Shadows blocked out the light, as Inn guests and staff came running to the commotion, standing over him, shouting questions.

Someone moved him, shifting his head until the spindles could no longer provoke him. He clutched at the stairs, rage and tears fighting for dominance at his helplessness and fear.

"It's all right," someone said, and someone else said, "get him upstairs." Castiel recognized them: Maybelle and Glenn.

Another deafening report from Jack's rifle startled them all into silence. The commotion downstairs abruptly ceased.

"Oh Lord," hissed Maybelle, and the hand supporting his cheek dropped away. Castiel's face lolled sideways, gaze locking with Jack's, crumpled at the foot of the stairs. He clutched his stomach, where red squeezed out between his fingers in an ever-widening stain.

"Get those men!" Jack shouted, "They broke in—attacked us!"

Castiel heard the clatter of four sets of boots as Chance, Lucky and company beat it out into the snow.

 _Fuck,_ was his first coherent thought.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel spent most of the following day convalescing. Jack was right as rain beneath his bandages, charming their caretakers and blaming his miraculous recovery on lineage to a species Castiel had never heard of. But while they shared a room, their volunteer nurses never left them alone together for more than a few minutes. He couldn't sit up without the room spinning, and the whole left side of his face was a multicolored rainbow of bruises. He ached, and itched, and burned with thirst, bearing all these inconveniences with barely restrained fury.

Police followed Lucky and Chance's footprints away from the scene, with no results. Not that Castiel had any such hopes. Nor did Jack, judging from the Webley that once again occupied its holster at Jack's hip.

Jack sat with him, their hands twined together, playing the devoted lover for their audience while he fed Castiel a slow trickle of life force through the contact. He even had the audacity to be  _bored,_  so bored that he'd started reading to Castiel from a travel magazine in the room, with personal asides to the articles that had their prison wardens in stitches.

Castiel could have murdered him, for sheer envy.

Twice.

Castiel's empathic abilities returned first, which was for the best, or he might have made good on that urge. As the light in the room shifted to twilight, Castiel abruptly found himself awash in Jack's excitement. He shook Jack's fingers loose and touched his wrist.

Jack trailed off the latest article, looking down. "How's it looking?" he asked.

Castiel sat up, glad to find the planet had steadied. "Better," he reported.

Jack touched the side of his face. "Your bruises look better, too. We've been invited to sit at the General's table tonight - guests of honor. If you think you can make it."

Of course the show would go on. It was a resort, after all. All of the restlessness Castiel had been saving up during the day found an outlet. He itched to get out of bed. "Is that a good idea?"

"Oh, trust me," Jack's grin challenged the shadows, "it's a  _fantastic_  idea. You don't want to miss this."

* * *

 

Almost an hour later, Castiel turned from the closet to straighten Jack's tie. The deep green wool of the uniform accentuated the breadth of Jack's chest and the trim of his waist. He took a deep, soothing breath, seeking focus.

"Nervous?" Jack chuckled, lifting his chin to make Castiel's job a little easier. Not that it helped. They'd used the need to dress for dinner as an excuse to get rid of their hovering attendants, and made the most of an hour, but at Jack's insistence, they didn't complete the ritual. Castiel needed his bruises, or they'd raise suspicion. As a result, Castiel felt  _better,_  and in a seemingly constant mild state of arousal. There was too much warm invitation in Jack's voice. Too much reminder that in a few hours' time, he would probably  _sing_. Leaving Castiel hard pressed to avoid an egregious violation of cultural propriety, right there in the middle of the campy World War Two set pieces.

"I'm not nervous," Castiel huffed. He gave the tie another tug, then pulled Jack down into another heady kiss.

Jack pulled away with a laugh. "I turned the audio file over to the authorities with the contents of the laptop's Internet history," he said, "the Galactic Alliance Guard has plainclothes officers all over that room. They've been looking for a reason to shut down the Survivors for months."

"And you're certain they'll reveal themselves."

With a snort, Jack turned back, needlessly refolding Castiel's collar. He'd done twice already. The pads of his thumbs caressed Castiel's jaw afterward. "One hundred percent," he replied, "how's the head?"

In answer, Castiel seamed his body to Jack's, hands smoothing down the thick wool lapels of his partner's uniform.

"Yeah," Jack chuckled softly, "I  _know_  how that one's doing."

"You're infuriating."

"You love me anyway."

The word froze them both. Awkward silence fell for a beat or two while they stared at one another.

Castiel patted Jack's chest and moved back, ardor temporarily cooled. "Always, Jack," he said, and headed for the dining hall.

* * *

 

Dinner was a nervewracking mess. Castiel was annoyed with himself by the second course, starting at shadows and hating it. He was still vulnerable, reminded of it by mild pain with every move of his head. He couldn't touch the side of his face and he was  _starving,_  struggling not to devour every crumb of food in front of him. Mortality frightened him more than anything else, and that surprised him.

In the decades following Sam and Dean's demise, Castiel nearly went mad for wanting mortality. Death would have been a happy companion, as the years alone took their toll and left him ragged. Even now, the sense of being  _frightened,_  of wanting to live so dearly that the threat of doing otherwise chilled him - was unique.

Jack found him at his worst, as time swept every familiar thing away from Castiel, even Heaven. And Jack found a way to make him whole.

As whole as he could be, anyway.

The extras vanished, ten minutes after the last course. Jack luxuriated in a glass of very good wine, completely unconcerned with his surroundings. Practicing a few calming deep breaths, Castiel tried to emulate him.

'General Waverley' put in his appearance at the dinner's end. At the Sergeant Major's cry of "Teeeeen _HUT!_ " everyone stood, the spotlight fell on their table, highlighting a massive multi-tiered cake and a grizzled, barrel-chested old man in the uniform of a US Army general. A roar of applause went up.

Standing at the rim of the spotlight's glow, Castiel never felt more exposed.

Four at a time, the extras appeared from behind the scenery on the stage. Their voices rose, soft at first and growing, taking up the lyrics of a stirring, gallows-humor battle march.

> _We'll follow the old man, wherever he wants to go,_  
>  _Long as he wants to go opposite to the foe…_

And beneath that, another sound.

Cats.

Cats, meowing  _Jingle Bells._

Castiel darted an astounded look at Jack, who smirked.

Multiple heads came up in the audience. The person manning the soundboard turned, making eye contact with one of them, and shook his head. With casual slowness, a few men made their way to the soundboard.

The meowing intensified, volume rising to the point that it was no longer possible to ignore. The singers straggled off. Disoriented, someone in a Private First Class uniform tumbled off the stage.

The Galactic Alliance Guard pounced. As they converged on the soundboard and other Survivors caught which way the wind was blowing, they tried to run. Plainclothes officers closed around the audience like a net. Shouts and screams echoed through the dining hall.

Jack was on his feet, standing between Castiel and the chaos like a shield. He was laughing, and for the first time in a very long time, Castiel felt  _alive_ , joyously alive, to the core of his being.

Above it all, an army of cats squalled discordantly on.

* * *

 

_Two hours later…_

Jack set the cruiser to autopilot and spent his last few minutes in Crosby 7's atmosphere gallantly refilling Castiel's empty fuel tank. Snow whipped past the dash, unnoticed while they made a slow final circuit of Pinetree.

"We should buckle in," Jack whispered in Castiel's ear.

"Not… just…  _yet_ ," Castiel panted, and existence was golden and glowing and fabulous again.

Over the windshield, the words " _The End,_ " scrawled in red script, as sweet voices chorused  _Happy Holidays._  The sound garnered a collective groan.

"Can we mute that?" Castiel asked, gingerly rising from Jack's lap. He tugged on his trousers and returned to his own seat.

Jack laughed, and with a lazy flick of his fingers on the console, overrode the signal. A newsreader interrupted the cheery bell chorus. "I think that's about enough holiday for one lifetime."

 _"And our top story of the evening,"_  the newsreader said,  _"members of the activist group known as 'Survivors for an Independent Future' were taken into custody tonight following an attempted assault on Dellacoi guests at the_ White Christmas Eve Revue _held in Pinetree of Crosby 7. Sergeant Greg Howe, spokesperson for the Galactic Alliance Guard, reports that more than a dozen members of the group were arrested tonight."_

Castiel sighed, good mood dissolving.

_"Sergeant Howe says that the Guard has been tracking this group for some time, and considers tonight's events a breakthrough. Two injuries were reported, both individuals treated and released at the scene."_

"Probably us," Jack said with a shrug. He reached for the console.

"No," Castiel waved him away, "leave it."

_"No further official details could be obtained regarding the activists or their attempt on Pinetree, although several witnesses mentioned hearing… screaming cats, during the arrest. All members of the activist group are former involuntary hosts to warring factions of the Dellacoi, and fall under provisions of the Galactic Symbiotic Rights bill. This provision protects the involuntary hosts of symbiotic war criminals, pending full psychological evaluation. More on this story as it continues to develop."_

The cruiser punched the atmosphere, and the radio fizzled into static, leaving Castiel alone with his thoughts until the cold dark of space surrounded them again.

Jack switched to an instrumental station before the newsreader could put more than two syllables together. Slow clarinets trickled out of the sound system, wrapping around them like an embrace.

"Looks like they might get help, after all," Jack said, unbuckling his straps. He stood up with a stretch. "Big maybe, but I'm a cynic."

Castiel couldn't think of a thing to say. He unlatched his own harness, lost in his thoughts until a warm hand on his cheek drew him out.

"I need you, Castiel," Jack said, when their eyes met, "You keep me alive. Remind me I'm still human - and humans are worth saving."

Castiel let the words hang between them, curled his arm around Jack's neck, and pulled him into the circle of his arms. He could say the same. More so than ever. The words were right there, asking to be said out loud.

But it was Captain Jack Harkness.

"If you ever take me to another theme planet, Jack," Castiel said, low against Jack's ear, "I will break your kneecaps and steal your ship."

With a laugh that was three parts glee to two parts relief, Jack headed back to the console. "Duly noted."

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen White Christmas, you might be a little confused by the whole ridiculous musical presentation. For some context, here's _The Old Man_ [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TuWlBAgbAfo)]. Also there was totally some UST between the General and his sergeant there, amirite? Of course I am.


End file.
